


Mañanas en la Habana

by AVegetarianCannibal



Series: Slice of Life [15]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hannibal has Feelings, Insatiable Will Graham, M/M, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter in Cuba, Will gives that cannibal some good good lovin, Will's dick makes Hannibal lose his mind, how to care for your cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVegetarianCannibal/pseuds/AVegetarianCannibal
Summary: Time to go back to the (almost) beginning and see what happened in Cuba from Hannibal's point of view.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Slice of Life [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/994764
Comments: 26
Kudos: 212





	Mañanas en la Habana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shukkhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shukkhy/gifts).



> Many thanks to Shukkhy, without whom this story would not exist and who has spent many hours discussing the ideas contained herein with me.

**(Mornings in Havana)**

**The First Morning**

  
Hannibal faces a dilemma.

The moment he wakes, he will have two choices before him. He can open his eyes at the risk of confirming that everything from the night before was the delirious dream of a man so smitten he'd spend years in jail waiting for his beloved. Or he can let himself fall back into sleep and allow the dream—if indeed it is such—go on for a while longer. 

Will snores softly beside him—just two quick little snorts before he rolls into a new position. Hannibal smiles into his pillow. Of course it was all real. He knows that. It's just nice to have confirmation.

But now he faces another dilemma.

Should he construct a new wing of his memory palace? An art gallery that he will fill with the vision that awaits him the moment he opens his eyes? Or should he dispense with all that, like a starving man falling to his knees before a feast? He can feel the sunlight just encroaching on the back of his shoulder now, peering in through the window like an eager voyeur. Why should the sun have the privilege of seeing Will before him?

Carefully as he can so as not to jostle the mattress, he shifts onto his side and opens his eyes to gaze upon Will, on this, the first of their morning-afters.

Hannibal is stunned.

Will lies carelessly sprawled upon the bed. One arm is thrown across his brow, the other is resting near the scar on his belly. Still sleeping, he scratches himself before tucking his hand into the tender fold of his inner thigh. His thumb is poised at the base of his soft, rose-pink cock. Periodically, his lips part and he snores softly, barely more than a softly rumbling gasp. Sweat gleams on his bare chest, not from nightmares but from the unrelenting humidity of their temporary home in Havana. Drool collects in one corner of his mouth before gaining enough heft to trickle down his chin.

It's a tableau more beautiful than any Hannibal has ever created.

He is not a run-of-the-mill serial killer. Nor is he Francis Dolarhyde or Randall Tier. He rarely, relatively speaking, feels a _compulsion_ to kill. Murder has mostly been incidental... a thing in service to his larger purpose of creation. Only rarely in his life has he felt a true and undeniable urge to murder. But now, as he basks in the happy warmth that radiates from Will as he sleeps, he feels such a tremendous desire to kill anyone that might ever harm him that his fingers twitch around the imaginary hilt of an imaginary blade. The perpetrator-victim is just as imaginary, but the desire is wholly real. 

This precise ember has flared to life in him before, of course. It flashed to an inferno the instant he thought Tobias Budge had killed Will, but even then Hannibal did not pin a name to it. 

_Love_.

Devourer of breath, consumer of oxygen. He was an entire continent of forests engulfed in flames and only called it interest. Attraction, surely. Somehow love was too dangerous a notion to embrace even for one who had little acquaintance with fear. Perhaps especially so.

Will, eyes still closed, smiles and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. "I can feel you staring at me, you know."

"You are the personification of love and terror," Hannibal says. 

Will opens his eyes. "Wow. Not wasting any time getting to the poetry, huh?"

"Not poetry," Hannibal says. "Only an observation by a stricken man. Like watching a hurricane come ashore as I stand on the beach, waiting for it to swallow me whole."

Will frowns. "That sounds horrible."

"It shakes me to my core," Hannibal agrees. "Yet I wouldn't move even one step to save myself from such a force of nature."

Will reaches across the narrow expanse of bed that separates them, palm open. Hannibal leans his cheek into it, closes his eyes as Will strokes him with the calloused pad of his thumb.

He feels the mattress dip and then Will is close enough to press a kiss to his lips.

"Does that feel like a hurricane?" Will asks. Hannibal merely makes a sound of consideration. He gets another kiss, this time on his chin. "Does this?"

"The flit of the butterfly's wing that causes the hurricane," Hannibal says.

He looks at Will now and it's almost enough to make him dizzy. To have Will so close, to know that he _can_ have Will so close with nothing between them—not a blade nor the wind rushing up from the Atlantic—he thinks perhaps a hurricane wasn't strong enough a comparison. Will takes apart every atom in his body and puts them together again with a touch.

He is pliant as Will arranges him on the bed. He is so overwhelmed that he can only receive, and what he receives are hundreds of deceptively delicate kisses to every inch of his body. Periodically he starts to move to reciprocate, and Will shushes him as if he's said something, and whispers, "let me, let me," as he continues his soft exploration.

"I can't believe I get to touch you like this," Will says. He situates himself between Hannibal's legs and kisses what feels like every pore along his thighs. He pauses. "It feels... new, but not strange."

Hannibal has to clear his throat before he can speak. "It feels like a miracle from here."

Will sits up and looks at him for a long while, as if wondering if he should give voice to whatever he's thinking. "Did... did you ever fantasize about... this?"

"I didn't dare," Hannibal says in all honesty. "Dreamed, of course, on the rare occasion I slept deeply enough to dream. You always came to me. Mostly to talk, but sometimes to not talk."

"We talked in my dreams, too," Will says. His brow furrows. "God, I missed you so fucking much."

Will's eyes darken for a flash—love and terror written in deepest blue—and then Hannibal is pulled up into a crushing embrace. The tender little kisses are abandoned. There's a fraction of a second when Hannibal feels dreadfully behind but he catches up and matches Will's ferocity with his own.

"Unpredictable," he says in one of the occasional moments when his mouth isn't occupied. "You were always too unpredictable... too unpredictable for anything like an accurate fantasy. I couldn't be satisfied with a facsimile."

They become an ungainly tangle of legs and arms in their desperate need for closer and closer contact. He feels teeth at his throat as kisses become open-mouthed moans. Will's thumbs brush over his nipples in insistent little circles.

Hannibal's world tumbles and either Will has flipped him onto his side or he's fallen and pulled Will down with him. It's impossible to separate his actions from Will's at this point. The moan at his throat becomes a breathy laugh.

Will ruts against his thigh, blindly and instinctively. Just as much by reflex, Hannibal angles his hips so that their cocks find one another. It's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle and, with one slight turn of a piece, everything falls into place. Their frantic, searching movements become more rhythmic as they slot together, perfectly harmonized. 

Fingers dig into his back as Will holds on, as if for his very life. Hannibal clings back just as ferociously, turning his head to catch Will's mouth for a kiss that gives and takes his breath.

Will gives a great, heaving groan and cries out just a fraction of a second before Hannibal does the same. He rolls on top of Will, still grasping him hard enough that there will surely be a bruise or two, and takes over stroking their still-spasming cocks together. The mingled smell of their release perfumes the stillness of the hot morning air. He can taste it on the back of his tongue just by scent alone.

When he can move no more, he drops down beside Will, half sprawled on top of him still. Will blinks up at the ceiling, grinning open-mouthed and breathing hard.

"In answer to your earlier question," Hannibal begins, breathing just as hard, "yes, that _was_ rather like a hurricane."

Will laughs and pulls Hannibal into the crook of his arm.

Hannibal considers telling Will he had been thinking of metaphors or forest fires and atom smashers along with hurricanes, but decides to save them for later. 

There's time.

* * *

**The Sixth Morning**

  
Hannibal knows before he wakes that Will is gone, but he's not filled with the dread of his loss as he has been in the past. Will wouldn't return to his old life now, because he knows as surely as Hannibal does that it wasn't truly a life. Hannibal would no more attempt to reestablish himself in Baltimore, even if he had no legal or criminal hurdles in his way.

Of course it helps that the first thing he sees when he rolls over is a note on Will's pillow.

_Gone for a jog around the block to have a look at the neighborhood._

_Don't panic, you goof._   


_— W_

Hannibal is entirely positive that he has never been called a "goof" before and he finds it oddly endearing. Then again, is there anything Will could do at this point that wouldn't charm him? 

He considers waiting for Will's return so they can share a shower, but his entire torso is sticky with dried semen. It mats the hair on his chest to the point that he can feel it tugging at the follicles when he moves. "Craquelure," his brain whispers to him. He laughs at his own ridiculousness.

He pulls the sheets off the bed and stuffs them into the hamper to wash later, then shuffles into the bathroom. 

His reflection in the mirror over the sink momentarily startles him. It's not that he's never seen himself in the morning after achieving multiple orgasms. It's that he's never looked like... _this_. His hair resembles a raccoon's nest, sticking up in more directions than he can count, with some of it plastered to his forehead. His left eye is more than a bit red from where, in an attempt at something sensually acrobatic, he collided face-first with Will's foot. Sheet marks crisscross his cheek and shoulder. Most unfamiliar and spectacular of all, though, he is grinning like a fool.

The grin freezes when he hears something in the alley behind the house. The metal trash bin rattles and his world suddenly diverges into multiple paths.

It might have been a dog or cat searching for a morsel for breakfast: no need to spring into action.

It might have been a neighbor hoping to find something of value cast off by wealthy tourists: he will remain calm but take note of the stranger's identity.

It might have been some mercenary sent by Jack Crawford, if not Crawford himself, in which case Hannibal will need to eliminate the threat.

As he stalks his way down the stairs, a lump of ice forms in his belly. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prick up. His pulse quickens. He can feel it pounding in the hollow of his throat... his temples...

He is afraid.

The Crawford path diverges into other paths, and those into yet more. There are too many possibilities, springing into existence faster than he can keep up with them. In an instant, scenarios are replaced by images that flicker by too quickly for him to fully comprehend all of them. How can he plan for every eventuality when the multiverse keeps birthing horrifying new realities? 

Eventually, he realizes he's standing halfway down the stairs, as if his feet were frozen to the step. Unbidden, hired thugs storm into the house to take him away from Will, or to take them both and separate them for the rest of their lives. So soon after they finally reunited. Or perhaps they—whoever they are—care nothing for the law. They may kill Will in front of him as a means of torture. He sees Will wrenched from him again and again, in a thousand different ways.

The ice in his belly sublimates into something hot enough to melt iron. His fingers curl into the meat of his palms. That desire to murder anyone who might wish to harm Will flares back into existence. He won't need weapons to dispatch the intruders. He'll tear them all apart with just his teeth and hands.

The back door opens.

Unmoored by preemptive fury, Hannibal takes two stealthy steps down the stairs.

Will's voice rings out from the kitchen. "I'm back!"

Hannibal relaxes as the adrenaline ebbs out of him. He takes a moment to allow his heart rate to return to normal before trotting into the kitchen with the return of his foolish grin. He catches Will around the waist and swings him into a hug.

Will pulls back just a bit and reaches out to touch Hannibal's left cheek. "Oof, your eye looks worse than it did last night."

"It was worth it," Hannibal says, and kisses him.

His lips taste like sweet citrus, and Hannibal fills in the blanks. It had been Will at the trash bin, discarding an empty juice bottle after his run. 

Will's hands slide down and give Hannibal's bare buttocks a squeeze. "Want to join me for a bath or do you want to ice your face?"

"You go draw the water," Hannibal says, shaking head. "I'll start some coffee for us for after. To recoup our energy."

Will gives him another kiss, this time with a teasing flicker of his tongue. "Mm. Sounds like a very promising start to the morning. Be sure the coffee is extra... _potent_."

"I always do," Hannibal says, sending him up the stairs with a swat on the behind.

As he puts coffee beans through the grinder, he resolves to buy another boat and stock up on ample supplies. They must seek to never be in a position where they have to fight for their escape, or for their survival. He won't risk separation from Will. At the merest hint of their discovery, they'll silently slip away and start anew somewhere else, together.

It's the safest option.

* * *

**The Eighth Morning**

Hannibal wakes with Will's erection caressing his hip. The awareness of it makes his own cock stir, but the deep, even breathing at the back of his head tells him Will is still asleep.

It would be terribly, terribly selfish to wake Will before dawn merely because he was aroused. 

Figuring a hint of encouragement would be less rude, Hannibal presses back with his hips to better align the cleft of his buttocks with what he wants.

Maddeningly, Will rolls away from him with a snuffling snore.

"Ah well," Hannibal thinks. "Soon enough."

He turns around and lets his senses indulge in the beauty lying beside him. Will has rolled himself sloppily against a pile of pillows, his head thrown back with abandon, hair wild from sweat and the vigor of the night's lovemaking. His thighs are sweetly parted, covered only with the diaphanous blanket of predawn shadows.

The sight of him makes Hannibal's breath hitch. He has to hold the tips of his fingers to his lips to keep an audible gasp from escaping. 

As a lover of art, he can't help but recall the marble statue of _il Fauno Barberini_. Seeing it for the first time as a teenager, Hannibal was enlivened by the statue's serene yet blatant eroticism. The Faun's legs, having fallen open in sleep, draw focus to his genitals, with his penis flaccid yet promising.

Will is not marble, though. The scent of his sweat and skin and sex imbue him with an immediacy of life that the Faun could only possess in the fevered imaginations of its admirers. Nor is Will flaccid.

Quietly as he can, Hannibal reaches under his pillow for the well-used bottle of lubricant. He generously slicks the middle finger of his left hand, then slowly pushes it into himself. He lets out an involuntary groan when he presses his prostate.

Will stretches and yawns. "You awake?" he mumbles.

"It's early still," Hannibal says, moving his finger in and out with firm strokes. The urgent movements make small, wet, suctioning sounds. "You can go back to sleep if you need it. I can take care of myself."

Will's gaze drifts downward. "Are you...?"

"I am," Hannibal confirms. "I awoke to your erection prodding me and the sight of you reminded me of the first time I became aware of my own arousal."

"Oh?" Will is openly staring as Hannibal fingers himself.

Hannibal parts his legs further, putting on a proper show. "I was young. I saw a marble statue—the Barberini Faun—a gorgeous satyr sleeping off a drunken party, nude and inviting. It made me instantly hard, as you do now. You bear a startling resemblance lying here beside me, though infinitely more beautiful for being real."

Will begins stroking himself. "Of _course_ the first time you got turned on would be because of art."

"Until I met you," Hannibal says, "art seemed the only chance I had of any deeply meaningful connection."

Will pulls him into a kiss, his fingers grasping the back of Hannibal's neck. He is delighted and surprised by Will's unvarnished urgency. Hannibal knows without vanity—well, without _much_ vanity—that he is an attractive man. But to be desired so hungrily by Will is something else entirely. His raw want makes any other to which Hannibal has been subjected recede into the distance until it becomes a point of nothingness.

Will parts from him to catch his breath. "Do you want...? Can I...?" He sounds slightly unsure of himself. In lieu of giving voice to the rest of his question, he replaces Hannibal's finger with his own. The angle affords him deeper penetration than Hannibal could achieve himself. Will's whisper is thick with arousal. "Can I?"

In answer, Hannibal turns over onto his side, his back towards Will. "Get close, the way you did when we shared a bed on the boat."

Will moans and snugs up against his back. He drapes one arm over Hannibal's middle. "Like this?"

Hannibal nods. "All the times I awoke to your erection, wishing you wanted me when you weren't asleep..."

"I did," Will says. "I do. God, I do. You don't even know the extent of it."

"Then show me," Hannibal says.

Will's arm leaves his belly so he can better guide his cock. Hannibal feels the smooth, flared head pressing against the bottom of his cleft. He pushes back and parts his buttocks with his hand. 

There's a sensation of fullness as Will slowly enters him, a small stinging as the muscle accommodates the stunning but welcome intrusion. Hannibal pushes out to relax the muscle and Will slips another inch deeper inside him.

"There, yes," Hannibal says. He feels wanton and delirious. He would thrash from the pleasure of it if he weren't more concerned with staying close to Will. "More. More."

Will's breath is hot on his neck. "I'm trying to be gentle. God, you feel amazing. I... I can't believe how you feel."

"You needn't be gentle," Hannibal tells him.

"I want to be," Will says, his tone insistent. "Just... please let me."

Hannibal nods.

As Will seats himself deeply inside, his arm returns to Hannibal's waist. He braces them together without moving for a long while. His breath is shaky with the strain of his efforts—efforts to allow Hannibal to become used to his size and to calm himself before every atom in his body evaporates from sheer joy. Hannibal knows this because he feels it, too. Time freezes. Years pass, or just minutes. They're indistinguishable.

Finally, Will moves. Then he moves again. Slow, long strokes timed with soft kisses to Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal drools onto his pillow without the least bit of shame. He's been rendered mad and reasonless. Thinking is currently beyond him. He can only feel, and the feeling is too much. He can't even see, as his eyes have rolled back under their half-closed lids.

"Hannibal? Hey."

He tilts his head back at the sound of Will's voice.

"Hannibal, you stopped breathing like a minute ago."

He exhales all in a rush as Will gently strokes his belly. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Will asks.

Hannibal struggles to reclaim some of his higher brain functions. " _Don't_... don't you dare."

Will pulls out and Hannibal groans in despair.

"Sh, it's just for a second," Will says.

He nudges Hannibal onto his back and opens his legs. Kneeling between his thighs, he pulls Hannibal's hips up onto his lap. Hannibal feels more open at this angle, bared and at Will's mercy.

Sweet mercy that it is. Will, who has fantasized about killing him with his hands and who could wreak holy violence like a bolt from heaven, tenderly runs his fingers over Hannibal's belly as he eases back inside.

There's an odd sort of luxuriousness in being penetrated, particularly after a shared history of confusion and distrust. Giving one's self over, as if to a perfectly sung aria or exquisitely written concerto, after years of discord... It is art without artifice. A surrender to something astounding and pure.

"Look at me," Will says.

The darkness in the room is giving way to a thick, amber dawn. Will rises over him, through him... Hannibal's vision wavers. Is it sweat in his eyes? Tears? He feels as though he's laughing. Every thrust Will makes is a revelation. When the sun finally rises in full, it will be because of Will.

He grabs Will's wrist. Will raises an eyebrow at him until Hannibal guides his hand to his cock and holds it there. They lace their fingers together and stroke in tandem. 

Though the strain shows on his furrowed brow, Will remains gentle, at times only fucking him with the very tip of his cock. Hannibal crosses his ankles behind Will's back, pulling him deeper inside. He wants to be full to bursting with Will, so full and so close that he can't tell their two bodies from one another.

Will fumbles for Hannibal's free hand and holds tightly to it. His breath is terribly ragged, he's trying so hard to last...

"Let go, Will," Hannibal says. "You've been gentle enough."

Only in the last few shuddering thrusts does Will lose himself. Head thrown back, he's the Faun again, a wild and feral thing. The sight of him and the needy little grunts he makes are burned into Hannibal's memory. He utters a final, groaning "Ah!" as he fills Hannibal with his release. It flows back out of him as Will continues to make stuttering little thrusts through his own spunk.

Hannibal finally lets go and joins him. His semen splashes over his and Will's still-joined hands, slicking their fingers as they pump out every last drop.

Then, locking eyes with Hannibal, Will raises their hands to his mouth. He licks Hannibal's hand clean, then his own, even sucking each of his fingers in turn. His lips gleam wetly, and he licks them, too.

To be so consumed... To be so hungrily _savored_... It makes Hannibal's vision waver again.

He's never been more in love in his life.

* * *

**The Seventeenth Morning**

Hannibal is somewhat surprised to learn that Will continues to enjoy seducing him, as if such a thing were even necessary. Will could eat instant oatmeal out of a coffee mug and Hannibal would be overcome with desire. In fact, Will has eaten instant oatmeal out of a coffee mug—not even a clean one—and Hannibal voluntarily kissed away the artificial peach flavor from his lips. 

Just recently Will attempted to make dinner for them both and managed to burn it twice because of his audacious flirting. Blackened butter and a smoke-filled house seemed a small price to pay for a round of kitchen sex.

Hannibal's not entirely certain he didn't expect Will's carnal interest to dwindle once he got it out of his system, so to speak. There was, after all, quite a long period of buildup. Thus far, however, Will has been steadily insatiable. If Hannibal had not kept up with some level of exercise while incarcerated, he'd probably be dead from exhaustion by now.

So Hannibal happily allows himself to be unnecessarily seduced, even though he would be glad to greet a post-jog Will at the door naked. With his cock or anus already pointed in Will's direction, depending on which body part was readiest at the moment.

Currently, he's watching Will hang up the wet laundry in the small yard behind the villa. It would be a pleasantly pastoral scene, like a painting by Henry Morland, except that Will is infinitely more alluring than the suspiciously upper-class laundresses the artist portrayed. Considering their island habitat, perhaps a better comparison would be a sea siren. Sweat has broken out on Will's shoulders, dripped down the curve of his back, glinting like light on the waves.

As Will moves around to the other side of the clothesline, the view becomes even more stunning. The sun catches his hair and turns the crest of every curl to dark gold. The light glitters on his lashes. Even the bead of sweat suspended from his jaw is rendered enchantingly beautiful.

Hannibal is behind him in three striding steps and gathering him up in his arms. He bows his head to Will's neck and plasters it with sloppy kisses.

Will laughs. "Hannibal, what on earth has gotten into you?"

"I couldn't help myself," Hannibal says with another kiss to the hollow of Will's throat. "It's as if a siren were calling to me, tempting me."

"I was hanging the laundry up to dry," Will says. "There's nothing tempting about that."

"You should have seen yourself as I did," Hannibal says. "The sunlight falling upon your kelp-gold hair and glowing on the fringe of your lashes. The bead of sweat running off your jaw was like a drop of sea glass."

"Oh my Lord," Will says with a laugh. He twists away from Hannibal's embrace and reaches into the basket for another sheet. "I'll be glad when we can get a new dryer to replace the shit heap in there now."

"Supplies are hard to come by here, even for me," Hannibal says. He catches Will around the waist and buries his nose in the nape of his neck. "Is it so bad, being the Siren of the Clothesline, enchanting me to my ruin?"

Will scoffs, loudly. "Fuck that! The way we go through sheets, I don't care how tempting you think I look out here. We're gonna take turns doing the laundry!"

Hannibal slides one hand down the front of Will's shorts. "Wouldn't you rather go back inside?"

Will moans and leans his head back. For a moment, Hannibal thinks he's won, but Will shakes him off. "Come on. Help me get the rest of the laundry up and I'll ruin you properly—in the bedroom."

"Very well," Hannibal says with a drawn-out sigh.

It is rather warm out, even though it's barely past seven in the morning. He steps away from Will and unbuttons his shirt, keenly aware that Will is watching him while fumbling in the basket for the next sheet.

Seduction works both ways.

As Will has shown rather a lot of interest in his belly, Hannibal makes sure to display it to its best advantage, angling himself in the light just so, and breathing perhaps more deeply than strictly necessary to make the musculature heave in an appealing manner. 

He picks up Will's glass of ice water and drinks from it, allowing a rivulet of the cold liquid to trickle onto his chest and down the midline of his abdomen. He takes another deep gulp while in profile to Will to better display the rise and fall of his Adam's apple. 

Will throws a damp pillow case back into the basket. "God damn it!"

Hannibal puts on a wide-eyed look of innocence as Will stalks over to him. "Why, whatever could be wrong?"

Will points an accusing finger at him. "If the rest of the laundry mildews, it'll be your fault!" He then grabs Hannibal's hand and drags him back into the house and up the stairs.

Hannibal is terribly pleased that Will quickly goes from admonishing him to undressing them both and throwing their clothes into an inconsiderate heap on the bedroom floor. He doesn't say so, of course, because sometimes he likes to let Will think that the messiness irks him, when the truth is that he would be happy for them to make love atop a landfill.

Will backs him up against the bed. "Go on and get on up there."

Hannibal does as he's told and Will wastes no time in climbing in after him, and then on top of him. He's equally impatient in spearing himself on Hannibal's ready cock, the passage eased by whatever lubricant remains from their romp earlier in the morning. Their union is not as slippery as it could be—or, in truth, _should_ be—but such is Will's impatience.

"There's a new bottle under the bathroom sink," Hannibal says.

Will shakes his head and that's that.

Hannibal wonders if he'll ever stop being awed that Will wants him so terribly, so frequently, and without reservation. Seeing the desire so clearly in Will's eyes is not unlike the moment they looked at one another and wordlessly choreographed their attack on Francis Dolarhyde. To see Will and understand him so completely, and to know that Will sees him just as clearly... No, he doesn't imagine he'll ever stop being awed by it.

Hannibal remembers the night that Will killed Randall Tier. He described imagining that it was Hannibal beneath him as he dealt the fatal blow. It was easy for Hannibal then to picture Will looming over him, teeth bared in the throes of deadly passion. 

Now it's something besides murder in Will's expression, and Hannibal doesn't have to imagine it. "This is my life," he thinks somewhat giddily. "This is my life with Will."

He reaches for Will's cock to return the favor, but his hand is slapped away.

"I don't want to come," Will says. 

"Oh?"

Will swivels his hips and makes Hannibal's eyes roll back in his head. "I'm going to take you twice tonight. Maybe three times, if I get in a nap this afternoon."

"Tell me," Hannibal says, even though speaking coherently at this point is becoming a struggle. "How will you do it?"

"Maybe standing up from behind," Will says. "While you look out the window and try to maintain a calm exterior for our conservative neighbors."

Hannibal shivers at the image that comes to mind. "And... and the second time?"

"That will be after dinner," Will says. The muscles in his thighs tremble as he grinds himself down on Hannibal's cock at a quicker and quicker pace. "I'll lay you out... on the kitchen floor."

"And the third time?" Hannibal asks, adding, "If you get a nap later?"

"In bed as we're falling asleep," Will says. "Slow. Comfortable. We'll both be exhausted. I'll fall asleep still inside you."

The pressure that's been building low in Hannibal's belly breaks like a dam. With a groan, he spills inside Will.

"Ah that's better now," Will says, moving faster now that he's been generously slicked. His cock, beautifully curved upward like the arch of a violin, sways with his movements. He doesn't stop until Hannibal is soft and every draught of semen has been pulled from him.

Will unseats himself and stretches out on the bed, a satisfied grin on his face despite not reaching climax himself. Satisfaction comes in many forms. So to speak.

"Oh," Hannibal says when he can find words again. "Now that I think about it, I may be able to persuade an underpaid maintenance worker at one of the resorts to acquire the parts you need to repair the dryer."

Will shrugs. "I don't really mind hanging up the wet laundry," he says. "As long as we take turns."

"Of course," Hannibal says, already looking forward to the next time he'll see Will shirtless in the back yard. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

**The Thirty-First Through Thirty-Fourth Mornings**

For the first time since their first time, Hannibal does not wake up aroused. Instead, he wakes up with a fever and a throat that feels like he's gargled shards of glass. Even the feel of Will's fingertips lightly combing through the hair on his belly doesn't move him. Well, not much. His cock makes a halfhearted twitch, then lies limp against his thigh like uncooked chicken.

With some effort, Hannibal holds out his hand. "I'll do my best to make a fist if you wish, but I'm afraid moving it to and fro may be too taxing at the moment."

Will rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to fuck your inanimate hand while you lie there fighting off an infection. You must think I'm some kind of crazed nymphomaniac."

"We've been intimate thirty days in a row," Hannibal reminds him. "Frequently more than once per day."

Will blinks. "Wow. I'm actually kind of impressed with us." He drifts off, perhaps recalling any number of their encounters, judging by the slow smile and glazed look in his eyes. He shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. "You've gotta know I'd be just as satisfied reading a book with you on the sofa. Or nursing you back to health, such as the case may be."

Hannibal lets his untaken hand fall back to the bed. "In that case, could you make me some of that guava tea with a generous squeeze of lemon? And then funnel Tylenol and codeine into my mouth until I'm no longer suffering?"

"That sounds grim," Will says with a wince.

"I didn't mean it like that," Hannibal says. "My fever is rendering me facile."

Will snorts. "Nothing could ever make you overly simplistic," he says. He leans over to kiss Hannibal's brow, then gives his thigh a reassuring squeeze. "I'll be back in a few."

As Will ventures off to the kitchen, Hannibal thinks back over the last few days to uncover the origins of his cold. So far, he and Will have kept away from the public as much as possible, partly to avoid being recognized for as long as they may still be in the news, and partly because they've been so consumed with one another that they haven't truly wanted to go anywhere. Once or twice a week, Hannibal visits one of the touristy hotels for access to more reliable internet and hits a market on the way home to pick up anything they'll need before the next delivery.

"That Belgian," Hannibal grumbles as he remembers the young man who barged in front of him at the Saratoga's concierge desk. He was irate that the hotel didn't have a doctor on staff. He sneezed into his hands, then proceeded to use one of those mucus-blasted hands to push Hannibal out of his way before storming out of the lobby.

The rude tourist would have made a well-earned dish of _boulets Liégeois_ , if not for the obvious pathogen issue, or if Hannibal weren't trying to avoid calling attention to himself.

Hannibal fumbles on the nightstand for his phone and turns on the front camera. His complexion is ashen except for the feverish spots of color in his cheeks and his tonsils are as red as cherry jam. His neck is swollen at the points of his lymph nodes, emphasizing the double chin he has from this angle. 

He tosses his phone across the bed just as Will returns with a tray of tea and toast.

"If I'd looked like this when we met," Hannibal says, "you would have run screaming from Jack Crawford's office."

Will places the tray on the bed and climbs in after. "I _did_ run screaming from Jack Crawford's office when we met."

"It was more storming off than running," Hannibal corrects him, but lets the subject drop. It hurts too much to talk even to prove himself right. He makes a weak gesture at his throat while wincing to communicate his condition to Will.

Will hands over his tea. "Drink up. I'll go check the internet somewhere for news and stop in at a pharmacy." He kisses Hannibal's brow again before heading back down the stairs.

Sore throat be damned. "Stay away from the Saratoga!" Hannibal shouts after him. "It's a plague pit!"

Come the second morning, he feels even worse. Phlegm rattles in his bronchi with every breath he takes. His intercostal muscles ache from coughing. When his fever jumps to an alarming 104.2 degrees, a fussy Will makes him sit in a tub of tepid water and wrings out one washcloth after another over his head. 

"You should be wearing a mask," Hannibal says, his voice gravelly and alien to his own ears. "Or, even better, a full HAZMAT suit.'

Will laughs softly and pours more water over him. "It's just a cold. If I catch it, it's not the end of the world."

"It's miserable," Hannibal says. "It feels more like death than being shot in the back and plummeting off a high bluff."

Will pauses in his ministrations. "Are you being dramatic or have you never been sick before?"

Hannibal shrugs. "Not since I was a child, not to any serious degree. Three years with nearly zero contact with the outside world left me without proper antibodies. It's as if my immune system were made virginal, completely unprepared."

Will nudges his head back and soothingly caresses his brow with the washcloth. "Three years... Explains why you were so touch-starved."

"Touch-starved for _you_ ," Hannibal corrects him. "I wouldn't care to be petted by any of Dr. Bloom's orderlies. Although, admittedly, one does begin to feel even more set apart from the physical—"

Hannibal is overtaken by a long coughing fit before he can finish. Will drops the washcloth into the tub and reaches over to the counter for Hannibal's still-warm tea.

Gratefully, Hannibal takes several careful sips and clears his throat. "The physical world," he finishes. He clears his throat again. "Do you miss our physical intimacy?"

"Just because we haven't had sex in two days doesn't mean we're not intimate," Will says. "Taking care of you is an intimacy. And it's only been two days! I've had more orgasms in the last month than I've had in—"

He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together to keep from saying whatever he was about to. Too many worms in that sealed can, Hannibal supposes. Or perhaps Will's past with other people simply isn't relevant to him anymore. Sometimes his unpredictability makes him like a book that has no ending, which can be frustrating even if it is one of the things Hannibal most treasures in the world.

Will shrugs and resumes smoothing the wet cloth over Hannibal's body. "Anyway, I don't really get just... randomly horny. I mean, not often. Something—or someone—has to inspire it in me. You being sick doesn't exactly get my engine running."

Hannibal stares at his hands in the water. "I'm a walking shell of a man filled with disgusting mucus. Truly, a monster."

Will splashes him. "I'm not _disgusted_ by you," he says. "I'm _concerned_ about you. I want to take care of you—for once, not in a way that involves fucking the living daylights out of you."

Hannibal can't tell if he's blushing or if it's the fever making his face feel warm, but he smiles nonetheless.

Will is murmuring something under his breath that sounds like, "Imagine accepting all the cannibalism and murder attempts and then a bad cold is the thing that scares me off."

Hannibal splashes him back. Just a little, though—even small movements exhaust him.

The third day of his illness is worse still. He can only breathe shallowly without triggering another coughing fit. Although he knows he needs to cough in order to clear his lungs, doing so leaves him aching and weak. He can't even escape into his memory palace to wait out the misery, as the fever has left his mind inefficient. All he can do is lie there and wonder if this is how it all ends. What a banality, if so.

Will, who is reading a stack of American and international newspapers in bed beside him, occasionally unwraps a cough drop for him or holds a cup of tea to his lips.

"If I die," Hannibal begins, his voice barely more than a croak, "I want you to avenge me."

Will turns the page. "I'll murder every virus I encounter."

Hannibal shakes his head. "You need to kill a Belgian."

Will glances up from his reading. "Any particular one or do you just hate Belgians generally?"

"The one who infected me with his rudeness," Hannibal says. "He's staying at the Saratoga. I don't know his name, but he has the eyes of a plague rat."

"I'll kill him for you," Will promises. "Tear him limb from limb and choke him to death with his own tibia."

Hannibal reaches out for Will's hand, pulling it from the newspaper. He clutches it to his cheek. "You must be careful. No tableau, as tempting as it may be. I can't bear to think of you incarcerated again, wasting away in one of those hideous jumpsuits." Hannibal chokes back a sob. "They're so ugly, Will, and your body is so beautiful."

"I think your fever is back," Will says, touching the back of his hand to Hannibal's brow. "I'll go run another bath."

Hannibal spends the rest of the day alternating between tepid baths for his fever and hot baths for his congestion. He begins to feel this may be his life now. He's simply going to exist as a human Petri dish from this point on.

However, the fourth morning brings with it a miracle.

Hannibal wakes to discover his head doesn't ache and he can swallow without maddening pain. When he presses his fingers under his jaw, his lymph nodes are no longer tender and inflamed. He takes a deep breath and life-giving air blessedly travels easily in and out of both nostrils. He has triumphed over the fiendish virus that sought to destroy him.

He rolls over and finds Will still asleep, curled up on his side like the most delectable croissant in the bakery window.

Hannibal has it in his mind that he's going to put his newly uninflamed throat to good use and wake Will by swallowing his cock, but something is wrong.

There's something familiar about the way Will smells, though Hannibal hasn't detected this particular scent in a long, long while. He leans over and sniffs at Will's neck again just to be sure.

"You have a fever."

Will grumbles at the disturbance and coughs weakly into his pillow. "I feel like steaming hot shit." He reaches for the edge of the blanket and pulls it up over himself, nearly high enough to cover his entire head. "Every time I swallow, my throat feels like it's full of sand and barbed wire."

"I _did_ tell you to wear a mask," Hannibal reminds him.

Will groans. "Can you make me some tea? And then go kill that Belgian?"

Hannibal peels back the blanket just enough to gain access to Will's brow for a kiss. "I'll make you the tea," he says. "We'll see about the Belgian."

* * *

**The Sixty-Seventh Morning**

Hannibal is torn.

He's been wanting from the start to take Will all over Havana to show him off, but he also wants to keep their interactions with the public to a minimum.

"We went out all the time in Mérida," Will points out.

"That was before," Hannibal says. "For all the decades I've been perfecting my person suit, I'm afraid I can't keep it from my face how I feel about you, nor my hands from touching you."

Will shrugs. "Do you have to?"

Hannibal opens his mouth to explain the nature of human curiosity and voyeurism, how they may draw stares and thus scrutiny, eventually leading to recognition. But in the end, boiled down to its simplest essence, Hannibal's reasoning is fear. 

"I have the world with you," he finally says. "I don't wish for anyone or anything to intrude on that." It isn't even a lie.

"Nobody can intrude on what we have," Will says, taking his hands. "Come on. You gotta let me show you off a little."

Hannibal blinks. "You? Show _me_ off?"

Will scoffs. "You can't really find that shocking."

"I'm a handsome man with an impeccable flair for style—"

" _There's_ the ego!" Will laughs.

"—but you're the only Barberini Faun that's ever come to life."

Will draws back, mouth hanging open. For a few moments, he just stares at Hannibal. Then he takes Hannibal's face in his hands, thumbs gently brushing over his cheekbones, and gives him several soft kisses down the midline of his face.

"We're not going to be found," Will says, intuiting the truth with that astute imagination of his. "We've been checking the news. We've even been checking Tattle Crime. Nobody's looking for us anymore."

"We should be wary," Hannibal starts.

"We will be," Will assures him. "I'm not going to let anyone come between us or take you from me."

Hannibal nods. "Then tomorrow morning, when the gray veil of the rain has lifted, I will take you to Vedado."

* * *

**The Sixty-Eighth Morning and Assorted Mornings Thereafter**

On their first outing, the harbor is still choppy from the storm that has moved on while leaving remnants of itself behind, but there's enough sun easing through the clouds to make their morning walk an inviting one.

They begin at the mouth of the harbor in Old Havana, and keep to the coast via the Malecón. The busy roadway to their left makes for a noisy start, but traffic thins out as people make their way to work in the hotels and office buildings nearby. Eventually, mostly tourists and those who sell to them remain on the fringes of the seawall, and they may as well not exist at all when Hannibal looks over at Will.

Wearing white jeans and a thin chambray shirt unbuttoned to bare half his chest, he is as beautiful as Hannibal has ever seen. His hair has grown noticeably longer and whips about in the wind that rolls in from the water. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose are pink from working around the yard in the sun. He smiles at Hannibal in that crooked way that he has, and holds out his bent elbow.

Hannibal hooks their arms together and they set off along the seawall.

"What did you call the neighborhood we're going to?" Will asks.

"Vedado," Hannibal answers.

"Doesn't that mean 'forbidden'? Sounds ominous," Will says. "But also kinda exciting."

"A holdover from times of old," Hannibal tells him. "You'll see that it's quite beautiful, with historical old mansions that have found new life as cafes and nightclubs, as well as museums. It would take us weeks, if not months, to explore it all."

Which, it turns out, is exactly what they do.

Each time that they venture into Vedado, Hannibal finds himself relaxing more. Nobody jumps out at them from between buildings, brandishing a gun and badge, or claws Will from his hands like the rapidly receding tide. Hannibal does get the feeling now and then, however, that there are more than a few people who would like to seduce Will away from him.

One morning as they enjoy a late breakfast on the roof of El Balcon de Diego, Hannibal notices their young waitress being especially ingratiating with Will. She laughs daintily at his bad Spanish and flutters her eyelashes at him every time she passes their table. She also bends over more than is strictly necessary, showing off her bottom.

Hannibal thinks she would make a deliciously ironic dish of _ropa vieja_ , but eats his snapper ceviche and papaya seeds without a comment.

Afterwards, they leave the restaurant arm-in-arm to resume the day's adventure. Hannibal makes a mental note to not return, no matter how delectable their seafood may be.

"I noticed you were a bit quiet," Will says, bumping him playfully as they walk.

"I didn't want to interrupt your conversations with Marisol," Hannibal says lightly. "She was having so much fun correcting your pronunciations of the menu items."

Will bumps him again. "You can't be jealous. She was just trying to earn a bigger tip and figured me for the softer touch."

Hannibal stops walking. "Are you saying I look stingy? I'm as generous a tipper as I am a lover."

Will tugs at him to continue the journey. "I'm saying you were glaring daggers at her."

Hannibal scoffs. "I have perfect control of my face and I was doing no such thing."

Now it's Will's turn to stop as tourists mill past them, tossing back the occasional annoyed look for their occupation of the middle of the sidewalk.

"Do you want to go on to the Napoleon museum?" Will asks. "Or do you want to go home and let me prove I can make you lose control of your face?"

Hannibal turns toward the street and waves down the next taxi he sees. "Let's go home."

They do eventually make it to the _Museo Napoleónico_ , which Hannibal regards as their long-delayed foray into Florence, although he doesn't say so. The art and furnishings are 18th century French, of course, but the architecture is modeled in the style of the Florentine Renaissance. Seeing Will strolling through the marble halls, walking past arched windows that frame him like a Sandro Botticelli portrait... it nearly overcomes Hannibal with emotion. It's everything he can do to stop himself lifting Will into his arms.

Will catches him staring and furrows his brow. "Is everything all right?"

"It's perfect," Hannibal says.

He promises himself that someday, they truly will return to Florence, under happier circumstances than the last time they met there.

* * *

**The One-Hundred-Seventy-Fourth**

**and**

**One-Hundred-Seventy-Fifth Mornings**

"I feel like I should be doing something with my hands," Will announces over breakfast.

Hannibal gets up from the table and begins unbuttoning his shirt. "Very well."

"Not everything I suggest doing is about getting you into bed," Will says, rolling his eyes. Hannibal moves to return to his seat but Will pipes up. "I mean, I didn't say to _stop_."

So Hannibal continues stripping out of his clothes, as slowly as possible, as Will tells him about the elderly couple he met on one of his recent runs. Sandra and Miguel take care of a small population of stray cats, which of course endeared them to Will at once, and they haven't any money to repair things around the house because they spend most of their meager income on the cats. 

"I figured I could fix up their stove, replace a few light bulbs," Will says, his gaze firmly fixed on Hannibal's bare torso as it comes into view. He licks his lips. "Maybe I could repair... their... um... Fuck, you make it hard to concentrate!"

Hannibal drapes his shirt over the back of the chair and gets to work on his belt. "I could cook some extra fish if you'd like to give it to them for the cats. After we're done in the bedroom, of course."

Will stands up so quickly that he knocks his chair over. "Holy shit. That's one of the sexiest, most romantic goddamn things you've ever said to me. Offering to help feed stray animals is right up there with 'if I saw you every day forever...'"

Before Hannibal can respond, Will leaps at him with fierce, open-mouth kisses and desperately grasping hands.

They don't make it all the way to the bedroom.

The next morning is nearly flowing into noontime when Hannibal, moving furniture around in the upstairs lounge, hears Will returning from the work he's done for the Sanchezes.

"I'm in the lounge!" Hannibal calls out. 

"Is that where the emergency is?" Will calls back.

Hannibal stops shoving the leather chaise across the floor, fairly convinced he must have misheard Will. "What was that?"

"I asked," Will says, approaching the top of the stairs now, "if this was the location of the plumbing emergency you called about."

Hannibal, growing ever more confused turns toward the door. "What are you—"

Then he sees Will and everything becomes clear. Well, perhaps not _clear_ , but it certainly becomes _intriguing_.

Will stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing a tool belt low on his slender hips, a few grease stains on his face, and nothing else. Hannibal has to shut his mouth lest he drip drool out of it.

Will saunters into the lounge, his half-hard cock swaying between a set of screwdrivers and a large wrench. "I was told that there was a very sexy gentleman at this residence who needed his big, thick pipe inspected for leaks."

Hannibal decides that "leaky pipe" is perhaps not the most flattering euphemism for his genitals and sounds more like something one would see a urologist about, but _also_ decides not to say anything to Will to that effect. The tool belt, after all, is _very_ arousing, and he doesn't want to miss out on finding what other tools Will might be carrying in it.

"You're welcome to conduct an inspection," Hannibal says, gamely going along with the extended metaphor.

Will licks his lips and quickly divests Hannibal of his trousers, then guides him down onto the chaise. 

Lying back with his legs open, Hannibal feels hedonistic and well-attended as Will settles between his knees. "Relax and let me do all the work," Will instructs him, and so he does. Hannibal simply sprawls and allows himself to experience every sensation, even down to the smell of engine grease in Will's hair and on his hands. He grips the top of the back rest behind himself to give his hands something to do while Will takes his agonizingly sweet time licking and kissing and gently nipping at the soft flesh of his inner thighs. By the time Will moves on to mouthing his perineum, Hannibal is as hard as he's ever been. He moans softly and bites his lower lip.

Will, sensing his need, moves on to licking up the underside of his shaft. He sucks the foreskin between his lips and dips his tongue inside, kissing it as he would Hannibal's mouth. 

Hannibal involuntarily arches his back at the sensation, and Will gently nudges him back down. He goes on deeply kissing the head of Hannibal's cock and foreskin, slowly sucking it further into his mouth until it's finally at the back of his throat.

The inside of Will's mouth deserves entire books of sonnets and odes. Hannibal could pen an entire epic poem dedicated only to the heat of it. The silky, wet heat of that mouth, coupled with the knowledge that only Hannibal himself will know this precise privilege for as long as they live, heightens his arousal to nearly unbearable levels. His senses are overwhelmed, and not for the first time since he's been with Will. He has to remind himself to continue breathing. 

When he dares to glance down, he sees Will looking back up at him. The connection is the final spark that jolts him into a deep, quaking orgasm. His fingers claw at the leather he's been gripping like a vise. He thinks me might be saying Will's name repeatedly like a mantra, but his pulse is pounding too hard in his ears for him to hear very well.

A moment later, Will his kissing him on the mouth as deeply and as thoroughly as he had his cockhead, letting him taste himself on that talented tongue. 

"Let me return the favor," Hannibal says once they separate.

"No need," Will says, showing him his slick hand and soft, satisfied cock. "I was the plumber in this scenario, remember? You were the one with the pipe."

"I lost the metaphor on the way to orgasm," Hannibal admits. He takes hold of Will's hand and licks it clean for him. "Mm. Better straight from the source, but still delicious."

Will drapes himself across Hannibal's lap and nestles into his shoulder. "I just don't want you getting bored with me."

Hannibal scoffs. "I could no more tire of you than I could alter the speed of light."

Will pulls back to look at him. "But you _did_ do that. You _did_ alter the speed of light."

Hannibal raises his brows. "Hm! Someone should alert the Nobel Prize committee and send my apologies to Albert Einstein."

Will settles back against his shoulder and links their hands together. "I told you that the light from friendship wouldn't reach us for a million years, and I told you that fewer than a million years ago. You must have rearranged the laws of physics."

Hannibal shrugs. "I'm even more impressive than I realized."

Will laughs and gives him a shove. "You're such an asshole," he says. "But, yeah, an impressive one."

* * *

**The Two-Hundred-Twenty-Ninth Morning**

It's been nearly a full eight months since they arrived in Havana, but it feels like a mere instant in time until Hannibal separates out the days in his memory. Time spent with Will passes so swiftly, even when they're participating in the most mundane of tasks.

On this early sunny morning, they're strolling through the produce market just north of Plaza Vieja. Occupying the first floor of a larger building, it still has the feel of an open air market with the warehouse-like doors rolled up and the exclusive use of natural lighting. The place is not as well-stocked as the markets situated closer to the resorts, but the food is fresher by far.

"I could make savory yucca pancakes," Hannibal offers, looking over plastic laundry baskets filled with the roots. He turns to a crate of limes that gleam like peridots. "Or sweet, with coconut milk and fresh lime marmalade."

"Either sounds delicious," Will says.

"Or tostones with onion and green tomato jam," Hannibal says, thinking aloud. "Perhaps as a side to grilled fish?"

"That also sounds delicious," Will says.

Hannibal laughs softly. "Do you have a preference?"

"How can I?" Will asks, looking at him with such open tenderness that it takes Hannibal's breath away. "Everything you cook is the best thing I've ever had."

Hannibal squeezes his hand. "I'll get the yucca."

After the market, they take a short walk down the Avenida to a little antiques and thrift shop they have visited now and then to add color to their rented home. Hannibal mostly focuses on the old books, but Will has found charming old fishing lures on occasion. The shopkeeper insisted one had belonged to Hemingway, but Will's final price was still only three Euros.

"Oh I think I like that," Will says, digging through a stack of periodicals until he finds a vintage magazine with a sleek sailboat on the cover. "It would look nice in a frame, don't you think?"

"Let's get it," Hannibal says, because he would happily buy anything Will liked.

Will tucks the magazine under his arm and continues digging for treasure, but Hannibal soon becomes aware that someone is staring at him. Rather than confronting the stranger with a direct glance, Hannibal allows his gaze to casually sweep over the store as if he were searching for something to buy.

His cursory scan tells him the interested party is an older man with dyed black hair. A woman about his age holds onto his arm with one hand while looking over perfume bottles with the other.

" _Cara_ , _cara_ ," the man whispers to the woman. His accent is Italian. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal witnesses his growing panic. The man grabs his companion's free arm and makes her look at him. "Il mostro! Il mostro di Firenze! Ches...ah... Chesapeake! The Ripper!"

The woman looks up and lets out a startled yelp. "Polizia!" she gasps. Then, louder, and in the local tongue, "Policía!"

Hannibal feels the cold knot forming in his belly again, but he doesn't have a chance to freeze. There isn't even a chance for possibility to diverge into multiple paths. Will has already grabbed his hand and is pulling him out the door and back onto the street. The energy coming off Will is buzzing like a downed electrical wire. Hannibal feels through the tension in his hand that he wants to run.

Hannibal holds tight to his hand. Knowing that Will is nervous forces him into calmness. "Just walk," he whispers. "They'll be looking for anyone who's running."

"Do we have time to go back to the house?" Will asks. 

"Is there anything you simply cannot live without?" Hannibal asks as they blend seamlessly into the nearest crowd.

"Well, there's that old cast iron pot I've grown fond of," Will says. "Plus, you know, our fake passports and stuff like that."

Hannibal gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry about any of that. It's taken care of."

Will gives him a look of utter confusion, but gets into a taxi with him without pressing for further information. After switching taxis a few blocks later and a leisurely stroll northward for about a kilometer, his confusion appears to be lifting.

"Are we going to the marina?" he asks.

"I bought you a boat," Hannibal confirms. "To replace the one we left behind."

He can see Will's growing horror as they walk past garish yachts built more for showing off one's wealth than one's love of oceanic travel. Some resemble small cruise ships, three levels high, outfitted with hot tubs and dance floors and neon-edged wet bars with faux gold fixtures. Will swallows. His face looks paler with every vessel he sees.

"Here we are," Hannibal says.

"Oh, thank God," Will sighs when he sees the much older and much smaller power boat. Then he notices the name and laughs. "The Tea Party? You bought it for the name, didn't you?"

"It wasn't a deterrent," Hannibal says.

Truthfully, as much as he's relished their time in Havana, he's missed seeing Will in full captaining mode. He chides himself for failing to buy him a little white outfit to match the role, though. Oh and a cap to wear with it! Or to wear with nothing at all... He shakes his head at the missed opportunity as they climb down into the boat.

He points Will to the galley. There, awaiting them atop the small propane stove, is a cast iron pot very much like the one in which Will habitually burns the roux. Will laughs and turns to give Hannibal a kiss on the cheek before exploring the rest of the boat.

Stuffed into the cabinets and stacked in boxes nearly to the ceiling, canned goods and dehydrated vegetables need but a few miracles to be turned into culinary masterpieces. A safe under the sink holds various forms of identification, credit cards opened with assumed names, tidy piles of Euros, and a bottle of personal lubricant.

"The most important valuables," Will remarks, peering inside. "Thank God you like to be prepared."

"I also somehow still have this," Hannibal says, holding up the bag of yucca from the market.

"And I still have this," Will says, reaching into his shirt for the vintage magazine he'd admired in the shop.

"Shoplifter," Hannibal teasingly scolds him.

"I'll mail payment to the owner," Will says as he displays the magazine on a small shelf over the microwave oven.

Hannibal embraces Will from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. "I was thinking we'd try Argentina next."

"This is a small boat for that long a trip," Will says. 

Hannibal feels a spark of worry. "Too small?" 

"Let me check something first," Will says. 

He slides open the door that separates the lounge area from the berth. The thin mattress on the storage bed might be even narrower than the one on their previous boat, made even more cramped by the extra supplies packed into every nook surrounding it.

"Not too small at all," Will says, turning around to give Hannibal another kiss. "In fact, it's perfect."

* * *

**The First Morning**

Hannibal is cold.

He wakes to a mostly dark cabin, with the only illumination a small safety light near the doorway. Will is gone, and he's taken the duvet with him.

Without bothering to put on clothes, Hannibal climbs the steps into the cockpit. There he finds Will seated behind the wheel, wrapped in only the stolen duvet.

"I was using that," Hannibal says, taking the companion seat beside him.

"I didn't want to wake you," Will says. "So I let the cold do it for me."

He shifts to distribute the duvet evenly and wraps one end of it around Hannibal's shoulders. They sit together, cocooned in the shared warmth of their bodies. Sweetly, Will leans into Hannibal's side and turns his face up for a kiss.

Hannibal, for once, does not immediately oblige. 

"It occurs to me you never asked about our plans for the future." 

Will shrugs. "I was enjoying our time together. Whatever was to come would come."

"Feeling fatalistic?" Hannibal asks.

"Nothing is predetermined," Will says. He cups Hannibal's face in his hands, brushing his fingers through the fringe of Hannibal's hair. "I'm just... _calmer_ when I'm with you. I told Chiyoh once that I know myself when I'm with you, and there's... serenity in that. Tell me how give that to you."

Hannibal reaches up for Will's wrist and presses his lips to the inside of it, feeling his pulse. "How does the hurricane reassure the awed man on the shore?"

"You're not the man on the shore," Will says. His eyes are intense even in the scattered light of the stars above them. "Hannibal, you _are_ the shore."

Hannibal finally gives him the kiss he's been wanting, climbing into his lap to do so. Will grabs at him, moving from his shoulders to his waist and hips, fingers digging into his back, his thighs, as if he wants to feel all of him at once. His raw desire fuel's Hannibal's own, and he drops his hand to Will's cock.

With a great groan, Will shoves out from underneath him, taking the duvet with him. Hannibal is left dazed by the sudden departure until he sees Will spreading the blanket over the narrow strip of deck between the sets of seats. He turns and pulls Hannibal down on top of him. There isn't enough room to spread out, so he hooks his left leg over Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal easily pushes a finger into him, then two. He's already wet and slick and eager. "You planned for _this_ future."

Will grins up at him. "You _did_ show me the combination to the safe."

They move in time with the gentle rocking of the boat on the skimming waves. It feels as if the boat isn't there at all, that they're suspended between the sea and the enveloping horizon. Will gasps every time Hannibal pulls out to push into him again. When he exhales, it's with a "yes" on his breath.

They maneuver onto their sides, clinging to one another as much out of desire as to fit their bodies into the space available to them. 

Hannibal feels Will's cock like a brand between them, searing his skin in wet, molten stripes. The salty scent of his orgasm is like an undernote of the sea air, filling his senses and surrounding him as one. He holds off his own release for as long as he can, lost in the completion of being so connected to Will's body, even as Will, exhausted, begins to lose his grip.

Hannibal eases him onto his back again. "You can relax."

Will nods. "I don't want you to stop."

So he summons every atom of bodily control he's ever possessed and presses back against the steady pressure that's been rising to a crescendo inside him, so terribly near bursting. 

He's still moving as the warmth of the rising sun begins sliding up his back. Will, force of nature that he is, overwhelmed everything Hannibal thought he knew about himself. It's what Hannibal has both feared and welcomed over the years he's known Will. In the beginning, his plans and manipulation were so Will could understand himself. It took much longer for Hannibal to realize he was coming to know himself, as well. He still is.

The hurricane tears apart the sandy beach, floods and rages and recedes and claws away everything that was impermanent to expose the solidity that was underlying it all.

When he comes, it is as much relief as release.

He slowly becomes aware that Will has pulled him down on top of him and is arranging the edges of the duvet to cover them. It mostly hides the sun, but some hazy light seeps through. Will looks achingly beautiful and rosy and terribly pleased with himself, as well he should.

"Onward to Argentina?" Hannibal asks.

"Can't we just stay here?" Will asks. "It's such a perfect morning."

"We need to put as much distance between us and Havana as possible," Hannibal reminds him. Will grumbles. "Besides, tomorrow morning will be just as perfect."

"Promise?" Will asks.

Hannibal nods and moves to kiss Will's furrowed brow. "Same for the morning after that," he says. "And the one after that, and every morning we wake up together."

With those reassurances, Will finally gets up—however reluctantly—and hoists himself into the captain's seat. Hannibal takes a moment to stretch, to feel the sun on his body, and to admire the same on Will's. Then, with tired and trembling muscles, he makes his way down into the galley to start a pot of very strong coffee.

After that, he will grate the yucca for pancakes and check the satellite TV for news of their surprise existence. When they've finished breakfast, they'll squeeze into the too-small shower together to save on water, and perhaps have a nap if they're not in the news. When Will falls asleep before him, Hannibal will again think about killing anyone who tries to separate them, using only his teeth and hands.

It will be a morning like any other, and he can't wait to discover what it holds.

-end-


End file.
